Scott Sigler - The Rookie

Quentin squatted, left foot forward, right foot back, as he reached his hands under Bud-O-Shwek. He pressed his left hand up, but Bud felt wet, Quentin pulled his hands back out — black wetness smeared the back of his left hand. Bud was bleeding. Should he call a time-out? He quickly looked at his linemen — black blood smeared the orange numbers on their black jerseys, most of which were ripped in one place or another. Some of their arms were up and ready to block, while a few arms hung limp and lifeless, broken. Yet none of the Ki had come out of the game.

“Quentin let’s go!” Yassoud shouted from behind him. Quentin flashed a glance at the play clock — seven seconds before they’d be flagged for delay of game. He quickly wiped his hands on his jersey, then squatted and thrust his hands under Bud-O-Shwek.

“Blue, thirty-two!” Quentin called. “Blue, thirty-two, HUT-HUT!”

Bud-O-Shwek snapped the ball. Quentin felt it slap into his hands. He pulled it to his stomach and turned as he stepped back. Yassoud surged forward, back of his right hand on his chest, elbow high, his left hand across his stomach. Quentin reached the ball out and Yassoud slammed his arms together, taking the hand-off and driving forward. He found no opening at the line, so he cut right. Vu-Ko-Will, the Krakens’ right tackle, drove his defender backwards. With nowhere else to go, Yassoud put his head down and followed Vu-Ko-Will. Defenders swarmed on him for a gain of only three.

The Krakens huddled. The clocked ticked past 1:00 and kept rolling.

“Screen pass,” Hokor said. “X–Left.”

Quentin looked to the sidelines and tapped the “transmit” button on his right wrist. “Come on, Coach. Their secondary is soft, let me go deep.”

Quentin saw the little holographic Hokor’s yellow fur suddenly stand on end.

“Barnes run the plays I call! Screen pass! X–Left.”

Quentin nodded, turned to the huddle and called the play. He lined up again, noticing suddenly that the butterflies were worse than before. His stomach seemed to shrink, reducing itself to half-size, then quarter-size. And now he had to pee. Quite badly.

“Red… sixteen! Red, sixteen ! Hut-hut, HUT!”

The line clashed together once again. Quentin dropped back, holding the ball up by his ear, ready to pass. Suddenly the line parted, and the white-jersied battering rams surged forward, multi-jointed legs pumping and multi-jointed arms quivering. The monsters roared with unbridled fury as they charged towards him. He backpedaled as if he was avoiding the rush — just before the Ki defenders reached him, he turned and threw the ball to Yassoud in the flat. Kill-O-Yowet and Sho-Do-Thikit, the left tackle and left guard, respectively, had released their blocks and moved to the flat to block for Yassoud.

Yassoud caught the pass, but Quentin didn’t see the results of the play — three huge bodies bore down on him, driving him to the ground. Almost a ton of defensive lineman smashed into him as he hit the turf. His armor resisted most of the impact, but not all. His lungs felt compressed, like he couldn’t draw a full breath, and he couldn’t move a muscle.

Quentin heard a whistle, but the weight remained. He felt the Ki’s hot breath on his face, and looked up into the hexagonal mouth and sharp teeth. The mouth flexed as the Ki spoke in its guttural tongue.

“Grissach hadillit eo.”

“Heard it all before, loser,” Quentin grunted out.

The huge creature shifted its weight, and suddenly Quentin felt the tip of a chitinous arm reaching into his helmet. The arm moved quickly and he felt a searing pain across his cheek. More whistles sounded, and the lineman pushed off him.

Quentin stood as he felt a hot wetness spread across his cheek. He touched it, and his fingers came away streaked in his own blood.

The butterflies in his stomach dried up and crumbled to dust.

Blossoming rage took their place.

The Krakens started to huddle up, but Quentin walked past them, shouldering roughly past his own Ki linemen.

“You want to play with me ?” Quentin shouted, pointed his finger at the back of the Ki lineman who’d cut him. The name on the back of the jersey read “Yag-Ah-Latis.” The unblinking black eyespots on the back of its head saw Quentin, of course. Yag-Ah-Latis turned to face him.

“You want to play with me, you salamander ?”

Yag-Ah-Latis simply put his bloody hand to his hexagonal mouth. A blackish tongue slithered out and licked the red blood clean.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw yellow flags fly. Harrah officials in their black-and-white striped jerseys flew between Quentin and the Ki lineman. Quentin was about shove them away and go after Yag-Ah-Latis when strong arms wrapped around his chest.

“Easy, kid,” Yassoud said as he tried to hold Quentin back. “Come on now.”

Quentin kept pointing and kept shouting. “You want to do that bush-league garbage with me?”

Another flag flew. Three black-and-white jerseys fluttered in front of him, helping to holding him back. A distant part of Quentin’s rage-stoked brain found it interesting a flying creature could display such considerable strength. A ref pushed him and he almost fell backwards. Quentin shoulder-tossed Yassoud, sending the rookie running-back sprawling on the ground, then reared back to hit the ref that pushed him. Hokor’s voice in his ear screamed loud enough to make him wince.

“Barnes, no! You hit a ref you’re suspended for the season!”

The coach’s words snapped Quentin out of his one-track intentions. A season-long suspension? Hell, nothing was worth that. He helped Yassoud up and walked back to the huddle, casting glances over his shoulder at Yag-Ah-Latis as he did.

“Barnes, that little act cost us fifteen yards,” Hokor growled in his earpiece. “Now take a knee and run out the clock.”

Without looking at the sideline, Quentin reached down to his belt and calmly turned off his receiver. He looked up at the scoreboard and assessed the situation: 32 seconds to play, first-and-25 on the Krakens’ 45.

As Quentin reached the huddle, he glared at his Ki linemen. Their eyespots stared back at him seemingly impassive. They didn’t seem bothered in the least that their quarterback had just been cut by an opposing lineman.

“Hey,” Yassoud said. “Call a timeout, chief, you’re bleeding pretty bad.”

“Shut up,” Quentin growled. “No talking in my huddle. X-flash left, double deep. Denver and Milford, get deep fast and get open.”

The two Sklorno started to quiver with excitement.

“Knock it off!” Quentin barked. “You want the whole stadium to know what we’re doing?” The two receivers instantly fell stock-still.

“Shouldn’t we just take a knee?” Yassoud asked.

Quentin reached out and grabbed Yassoud’s facemask, twisting it and pulling his head forward. “My huddle. You talk one more time and you’re out, got it?”

Yassoud, surprised and wide-eyed, nodded once.

Quentin let him go.

“Line up like we’re showing a QB kneel. As soon as we get to the line, Denver and Milford sprint to X-flash. Go on first sound, ready?”

“Break!” the players called in unison.

Quentin and the others jogged to the line. Denver and Milford lined up outside the left and right tight ends, respectively, then just as the defense settled in for the predictable situation, the Sklorno receivers sprinted out along the line of scrimmage.

Quentin saw Hokor’s fur ruffle once more. The coach said something into his mouthpiece, but Quentin didn’t hear it. Just as Hokor started to signal for a timeout, Quentin shouted “hut!” and the ball hit his hands. He dropped back five steps and planted, looking downfield. The crowd roared as Denver sprinted down the sideline, then angled towards the center of the field. Jacobina, the ‘Crawler’s cornerback, matched Denver step-for-step with blanket coverage.